Things I Dreamt Last Night - Faint Imperceptibility
by SuperSecretSummer
Summary: Oneshot based on the prompt "Things I Dreamt Last Night" from Timebird84 on Tumblr.


Based on the prompt "Things I Dreamt Last Night" from Timebird84 on tumblr.

* * *

The way the sunlight hits the wood should make me realize. The shimmer in the air, the faint imperceptibility at the edges of everything. But it is easy to ignore what you don't want to acknowledge.

"Come, älskling," Papa gestures at me, and I pass him his bow. "What shall I play - ah, wait! I know."

He winks at me the way he always does - did - has - and begins to play. A beautiful, haunting melody. The violin sings, almost like a man, almost human.

"Do you know what I call this song?" Papa's voice is soft, his eyes are kind, and there is a smell like cinnamon in the air. I shake my head. "Yes you do."

Papa continues to play. I make my way to the imperceptible edges and run my hand along the kitchen table. The whorls in the rough wood feel exactly as I know they should. The wall is green where it ought to be blue. Through the window I see the hill, the single tree, and the chair I dragged there to nestle amongst the roots for tea, exactly where they should be.

Through the window I see Paris.

The violin is still singing like a broken man. I can hear its voice cracking.

"Tell me what the song is called, älskling." Papa says again. I put my hand on his as he moves his bow across the strings, and it does not stop the song. He plays on and does not mind. His eyes are kind, kind, infinitely kind, his hand is warm beneath mine. "Sing now for me, Christine."

His hand moves back and forth upon the bow, and mine with it. I open my mouth but I cannot sing.

"Tell me what the song is called, älskling. You cannot have forgotten. Sing it with me."

I open my mouth and I cannot sing. Only tiny, strangled noises, as from far away.

"How many times did I tell you the story?" Papa, papa, his eyes still so kind. It is breaking my heart and I want to name it. Singing, speaking, all impossible. Only small noises with great effort and the room is growing colder, damper, the sun does not gild the imperceptible edges any longer. I know, I know, I know, I know. " I wrote it for you when you were little. What is the song?"

"What is the song, my love?" Mama, behind me, her hand on my should as my hand is on papa's. She whispers in my ear, cinnamon and sunshine and -

"Musikens ängel…" The words leak out of me with great effort, stilted and whispered and rough. The cabin is gone and it is dark and I should have known it was not real but that does not make it hurt any less, and the small, strangled noises are still coming from my throat, but this time I recognize them for what they are by the taste of salt on my lips.

The ground is damp beneath me, my hands recognize the rough surface as dirt, but I am too weak, too weak, and there is cool water on my forehead. What a herculean task, the act of opening one's eyes. Two small, golden fires hang in the air above me, and there is a sensation of something gently skimming my temples, cheeks, lips. An overwhelming scent of wrong, and of off, and of once there was a mouse that died in a cupboard.

The way the sunlight hits the sea should have made me realize. The shimmer in the air, the faint imperceptibility at the edges of everything. But it is easy to ignore what you don't want to acknowledge.

"I, Mademoiselle," says Raoul as he stares at the waves, "I am the little boy who once ran into the sea to rescue your scarf."

"Raoul, I know, I am sorry-"

"Since you seem set on not recognizing me, I would like to say something to you in private. It's very important."

"Oh, Raoul, I should not have lied to you," I touch his face, so handsome, so grown, "of course I recognize you."

There is a long silence. My hand on his cheek, his eyes on the sea. Finally, he looks at me.

"What did I say in the garden when we were sixteen?" He asks, as if it is the most important question in the world.

The waves continue to crash, I can hear them and smell them but the sand is gone and now there are leaves and I am wearing the dress I loved most all those years ago.

"You said 'I shall never forget you,'" I whisper, and he steps nearer.

"What did I mean?" He whispers back, so close, so close, so close.

"You meant that Christine Daaé could never be the wife of the Viscount de Chagny."

"Little Lotte's head was always full but was it full of nothing? She was a summer bird, gliding on golden sunbeams, her crown -" I silence him with a kiss, and it is sweet, sweeter, sweetest. Oh, the memory is wrong but familiar. I have been in this garden before, so many times, rewriting the ending, but this time feels different. We pull apart. This time we are not sixteen, this time we are now, and this time he whispers against my lips something he has never said in the garden before.

"And did your father also tell you that I love you, Christine, and that I can't live without you?"

Sweet, sweeter, sweetest. The waves crash and the wind, the leaves rustle and the clouds, the sand glitters and the edges,

Imperceptible.

There is a smell of gardenias. Of jasmine. Of peonies and true love and lavender and rose and it overwhelms me. The scent worms it's way between me and the boy who saved my scarf and the edges blur, and it all blurs, and there is white and faint pink and soft gold and I can hear the voice of an angel singing.

My angel, singing softly. Softly as a violin. And I am safe and warm and content, because my father played his promise for me nightly and what he played came true, did it not?

Opening my eyes is not so difficult. Much easier now. A large, yellow English rose bobs gently above me. Baby's breath. Gardenias. Jasmine. Peonies. A floral cacophony rims my periphery and my head, oh my head. The singing stops. I sit up and the world tilts until it doesn't anymore.

There is a man standing before me. Slender. Well dressed. Masked. Small, strangled sounds are trapped in my throat, and when he speaks, it is with an angel's voice.

The way the gaslight hit the petals should make me realize. There is no shimmer in the air, harsh perceptibility at the edges of everything. But it is easy to ignore what you don't want to acknowledge.

But only for a little while.


End file.
